


Lunar

by moments_of_infinity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Big Gay Love Story, Depression, Gay, Heartbreak, Love, M/M, NSFW, Not Canon Compliant, Obliviation, Oral Sex, Passion, References to Depression, Sad, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moments_of_infinity/pseuds/moments_of_infinity
Summary: Harry and Draco have unequivocally, irrevocably fallen for each other. But after they're obliviated, they forget everything-- every note and smile exchanged, every passionate night spent together. Yet years later, both of them much older and wiser, they begin to remember again. (NSFW)





	1. A smile fell in the grass, Irretrievable!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is Oona and Jaclyn! We've decided, most stupidly, to go back in time to years and years ago and write a fanfic together. Anyway, the chapter titles are from the poem “The Night Dances” by Sylvia Plath. We do not own her work, nor do we own Harry Potter. This fic begins in late May of Harry and Draco’s 6th year. The fic is canon compliant until, well, right about now.

The air is still and quiet, the soft lapping of the lake against the shoreline filling the air. A grove of trees hugs the edge of the water, moonlight stretching out across the tide in cut, gleaming slits. 

In the midst of the trees, two bodies press against each other, platinum hair and green eyes both shining in the pale, dim light. Draco has his arms braced on either side of Potter’s head, mouth suspended just breaths away from him. Draco’s eyes drop to Potter’s lips, admiring their curve.

Potter grips Draco’s green tie, and the two of them seem suspended there for a moment, faces flushed, palms sweaty. Potter moves first, closing the gap between them by pulling on the silk.  _ Impatient Gryffindor that he is,  _ thinks Draco,  smiling into the kiss. Draco’s tongue runs along Potter’s top lip, easing into his mouth, and the kiss slows: their tongues move against each other, Draco’s hands pressed against Potter’s chest, Potter’s hands sliding up Draco’s shirt. Draco’s breath hitches,  _  Merlin _ , he sighs,  _ what Potter does to me.  _ Draco cups Potter’s arse in his hands, pressing their hips together, and Potter groans at the friction. 

“Touch me,” croaks Potter, and Draco smirks against Potter’s neck. “Wait,” he says, “Don’t be so bloody impatient all the time.” Potter opens his mouth to protest, but his words turn into a moan as Draco lets his teeth grab at the skin of Potter’s neck. Draco feels Potter’s hands leave his body, which feels cold without him. He pulls back, brow furrowed, “What-”

What he had been about to say was caught in his throat as he watched Potter stroking himself, sliding his hand down the length of his own cock, hips bucking. “Jesus fuck,” Draco croaks,  licking his lips, heat pooling in his groin, and in a flash he has Potter pinned beneath him on the grass. Draco straddles Potter’s waist, leaning forward to take his mouth in a rough, searing kiss as Draco unbuckles his own belt, “I told you to wait, Potter. Now look at what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

He bites his lip, feeling Potter’s cock hard against his arse. Potter’s eyes gleam with mischief, flecks of gold glinting in the moonlight. He shudders as Draco slides a hand up his chest, “I want to feel you, Malfoy.” 

Draco looks at him, half lidded, “Fuck, you’re lovely, Potter.” And it’s true: Potter, with his glasses askew, shirt unbuttoned, dark hair splayed out across the ground, is the epitome of beautiful . Potter’s cheeks flush, but he raises an eyebrow, “Getting all sappy on me, ferret? Weakened your resolve, have I?” He brushes his knuckles on the underneath of Draco’s bollocks, his touch light but purposeful as it works its way down Draco’s prick. Draco makes an odd, restrained sound in the back of his throat, lashes fluttering and eyes rolling back. “Potter, please…” Potter grips Draco’s hips, his voice hoarse. “Tell me what you want, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy looks down at him, lips swollen and eyes stormy. “I want you inside of me, Potter, right bloody now.” 

Potter swears, ripping Draco’s shirt open and pulling at his trousers. Draco helps him work them off. He loves it when Potter curses, loves how rough his words sound when falling from his lips. Draco transfigures a small rock into a phial of lube, working the liquid from the base to the tip of Potter’s cock. Potter takes the lube from him, lathering his fingers and reaching around to slide one into Draco’s hole. “Christ-” Draco’s hips roll as Potter stretches him open, the sensation burning but filled with pleasure. 

Potter slides his fingers out of him, lining up the head of his prick. Draco hisses as he slowly takes in the length of him. Potter throws his head back, biting his lip, and Draco begins to move, rocking forward and back, sucking on Potter’s nipples until they’re hard, cool, and wet against the hot night air. Potter thrusts his hips to meet Draco’s every movement, and Draco loves the small, guttural sounds Potter makes at the feel of his cock inside of Draco, gradually getting louder until he comes undone inside of him, thighs shaking, back arching, lips parting to let out a throaty moan. Draco slows his movements to a stop, breathing hard, and watching Potter unravel is the most bloody gorgeous and fucking mesmerizing thing he’s ever seen. 

Potter’s soft prick slides out of him, and Draco quiets those final groans of release with a soft, lingering kiss, dipping his tongue lazily into Potter’s mouth. Potter flips them over, kissing Draco languously, and this is Draco’s favorite part of these nights, these slow, intimate kisses.

Potter works his way down Draco’s body, the tip of his nose brushing soft, golden curls that lead down the v of Draco’s groin. Draco’s cock is still hard and wet, and Draco props himself up on his elbows.

“You don’t have to, you know,” he whispers. Potter’s lips ghost up Draco’s shaft, curling into a smile, “I want to, Malfoy. I want to make you shake, cry out,” he pauses, his tongue flicking out to taste the tip, “lose control, all because of me.”  _ Always because of you _ , Draco wants to say, but instead watches as Potter wraps his deliciously pink mouth around the head of his prick. 

Draco leans forward more, gasping, tangling a hand in Potter’s mass of waves. Potter takes him deeper, curling his tongue up against the underneath of Draco’s length, bobbing his head up and down in rhythmic motions. Draco moans when he feels his cock slide deeper, arching as he feels Potter swallow around him. He looks up at the night sky, the stars bright and illustrious, and Draco can feel the weight of his worries lifted off of him, his body tensing, trembling, and then-

A cry in the night. Potter, swallowing all of Draco’s come down,  _ like a bloody fucking champ _ , he thinks, and then the soft rustle of Potter’s body moving up to lay next to his. Draco’s head rolls to look at him, feeling suddenly very vulnerable. Potter runs his thumb along Draco’s jaw, tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. There’s something so intimate and careful about their movements now, Potter trailing his fingers along Draco’s Sectumsempra scars. Draco presses his mouth to Potter’s firmly, tasting himself on the other boy’s lips. 

They hear laughter in the distance, someone else breaking curfew, and when they look back to each other, it feels a little awkward and silly, laying in each other’s arms like this. Draco clears his throat and begins to get dressed. Potter watches him for a moment before grabbing his wand from the ground and casting a quick Scourgify over the both of them, but the air still smells of sex, settling into the soothing aromas of the forest. 

Draco scratches the back of his head, glancing over at Potter. 

“Later then,” he says, and Potter nods, fixing his glasses. Draco begins to walk away, but turns, catching Potter’s lips in a quick kiss. Potter smiles against his mouth, and Draco can’t help but think that he’s completely head over arse for at least Potter’s kisses, if nothing else. 

Back in the Slytherin Common Rooms, Draco tries to assure himself that there is, indeed, nothing else. 

Blaise lounges on the bed next to his, watching him. Draco sighs and sets down the scroll of parchment he’d been working on. “Yes, Blaise? To what do I owe the pleasure of you gawking at me like a bloody Grindylow out of water?”

“Well,” Blaise drawls, “I was wondering where you’d been, considering your hair’s a right mess and you’ve got,” he scrunches his nose, “dirt on your robes.” 

Draco picks his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay back up, “Prefect duties, Zabini. They lead me far and wide.” 

Blaise snorts, “Draco, that’s a load of dragon’s dung, and you know it. I know what you look like when you’ve just been shagged.” His sneer turns into a grin, eyes dark and daring, “Or have you forgotten your first so easily?” 

Draco’s eyes widen, swatting at his friend, “Shut the fuck up, would you? Merlin!” He exclaims as he peers over at a snoring Theo, relief clouding his face. He snaps towards Blaise, “What part of ‘closeted’ and ‘my father would bloody kill me’ do you not understand?” 

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Calm down mate. He’s asleep. Wouldn’t want to wake him, yeah?” Draco chucks his essay at the boy, drawing his curtains shut and curling into his comforter. Blaise laughs. 

“Hey, mate, thanks for the answers! Snape’s essays are killer.” And then Theo’s distant, muffled voice, “What did I miss?” and “Oi, are those the answers to the Defense essay? Wicked!” 

Draco’s heart pounds so hard it feels as if it’s in his throat, and he knows that if he does find sleep tonight, all he’ll be able to think of is Potter. 

* * *

Classes the next day go by slowly, until it’s time for Potions with Slughorn. As he and the other Slytherins make their way in, he catches Potter’s eye, quickly turning his smile into a frown. He knocks Potter’s inkwell over as he goes by, snickering, “Watch it, Potter, don’t want to muss up these desks. Godric knows Snape  will be teaching this class again soon enough, right boys?” Crabbe and Goyle jeer, Blaise observing with amusement. Zabini’s finger catches one of Granger’s curls.

“Find a taming charm, did we, dear?” He asks with a snide laugh. She yanks away from him, glaring. His fingers trail along her tense shoulder as he passes.“Soft, too.”

Draco rolls his eyes at Blaise’s flirtatious taunting. The Veela in him can’t always contain itself, which is perhaps why Draco let himself fall for it back at the beginning of fifth year. 

“Alright, settle down,” Slughorn’s voice squeaks out to them as he billows into class, the fat nag. “Today, you’ll be doing partner projects.” There’s cheering from the students, until Slughorn holds his hand up, “And I’ve already picked the partners.” Groans, from all around. Slughorn begins to read from a list on his desk. “Weasley and Goyle,” Weasley deflates, resigning himself to a low grade. Draco hears him complain about not being able to work with Potter, mumbling about some book.

“Zabini and Crabbe, Granger and Parkinson,” he announces. The two girls tense, Granger turning slowly to face Pansy, who glares at her and says, “Come on, cow. I’m not moving over there.” 

“...and Finnaegan, and Malfoy and Potter. He flicks his wand at the chalkboard. Here is your potion for the day- necessary ingredients are in the cupboard.” 

Draco moves towards Potter’s seat, accio-ing the supplies to him. Students turn to glare at him, some having been knocked in the head by the flasks and such. They work in silence, a heat steadily building between them when their knees or thighs or hands brush up against each other. Draco looks at Potter, his eyes watching his strong jaw, his lips. Draco thinks he sees a hickey beneath the collar of Potter’s robes, but whether it’s from himself or the Weaselette, he’s not sure. A spike of jealousy flares up inside of him. He doesn’t mind that Potter is cheating on the Weasley girl with him- he relishes in it, even. But he hates that she gets to touch him, dig her nails into his back as he fucks and kisses her, the same way he fucks and kisses Draco. 

Draco moves his chair closer to Potter, leaving one hand on his textbook and slips the other up his thigh. Potter stills, sending a nervous glance to Weasley a few rows over. Draco rubs circles into Potter’s thigh.

“No one will see, Potter,” he says, leaning in closer. “And if they do, at least then that redheaded hag can stop slobbering over you.”

Potter’s brows raise. “Jealous much, Malfoy?”

“You wish.” It sounds half hearted, even to Draco. He distracts them both by cupping Potter’s groin in his palm, finding the curve of his half hard prick in his pants. Draco smirks at the power he feels when he’s able to control Potter’s body like this. 

Potters breaths are coming harder now, his bottom lip caught by his teeth as he tries to go on about making the potion. His movements are shaky, stilted and mechanical, and Draco can’t help but let out a quiet laugh. 

“Struggling a bit there, are we, Potter? Merlin, I thought you were supposed to be good at this, being the bloody  _ Chosen One  _ and all.” He lets the words come out loud as he strokes Potter through his pants underneath the table, hearing a few Slytherins laugh at his menace. 

There’s a sound like a collapsing building from Goyle and Weasley’s cauldron, and Draco drops his hand as Slughorn hurries over to the singed boys. “Class dismissed early today! Leave your potions where they are, and I’ll check their progress and store them properly for next class. Miss Granger, could you and Miss Parkinson take these two boys to the Madame Pomfrey? It would be a great help.” 

Draco’s nearly done packing up when a note in Potter’s messy scrawl lands in front of him: 

_ Tonight, after dinner. The usual spot. Don’t be late. _

It’s bold, Draco can say that for sure, and a smile spreads across his face, along with warmth in his chest. He slings his bag onto his shoulder. 

_ Screw the Weaselette,  _ he thinks as he leaves the classroom,  _ Potter’s mine. At least for tonight.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. And how will your night dances

“Harry, I need to talk to you,” Hermione says, her voice stern.

Harry looks up from his Potions book, frantically slams it closed--he knows how much Hermione hates the Half-Blood Prince-- and places it on the table in front of him. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes. I’m just-- well, I just…” her voice trails off as she takes a seat down next to him. She scans the Gryffindor common room as if checking to make sure that the two of them are alone. Harry suddenly feels a little nervous.

“Spit it out, Hermione,” Harry instructs, a hint of panic in his voice.  _ She couldn’t know!  _ He thinks to himself. _ She may be the best witch in our year, but she can’t read minds. And besides, I’ve done a foolproof job in keeping it quiet. _

“Harry, are you gay?” Hermione asks, her face blistering the color of wine. Harry’s jaw drops, and he swears-- he absolutely swears-- that his heart, if just for a moment, stops beating.

“ _ Me?” _

“Yes, you.”

“Um--”

“Actually, I don’t even know why I bothered asking. I already know the answer. Harry, you really  _ are _ terrible at not letting others see you, erm,  _ doing things  _ in class,” she says, giggling a little bit. “But Draco Malfoy, of all people? I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed.”

Harry stands up and brushes off his robes. He doesn’t know what to say, where to even begin. Finally, he sputters out: “please don’t tell Ginny. Please.”

Hermione, now looking much more serious, rolls her eyes and pats her hand on the now-empty chair next to her.

“You’re evil. I won’t tell her, but I hope you know that you’re a pretty awful wanker for doing this. Now, sit back down,” she commands. Harry listens. As he sits, he presses the palms of his hands into his eyes. He still doesn’t know what to say, can’t think of a single thing that begins to make sense.

“Harry, you’ve got to tell her. This isn’t fair to Ginny. Does Ron know?” Hermione asks, her voice quieter, softer. Harry shakes his head. He can feel tears press and compress somewhere in the base of his throat, but he swallows them down. He’s the Chosen One. He can’t cry, especially not about something like  _ this. _

“Am I the only one who knows?” Hermione asks, gently placing her hand on Harry’s back. Harry nods and sits back in his chair.

“Yeah. Hermione, I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, I’m always here for you. If you want to...talk about anything. You can open up to me.”

“I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.”

Hermione pauses, and then--

_ “Draco Malfoy,  _ Harry? Of all men? You’re cheating on your beautiful, smart, kind, caring,  _ beautiful  _ Gryffindor girlfriend with the most heinous Slytherin of them all?” She asks, disgust suddenly cloaking her features. Harry can’t help but start to smile. Now that she’s said it, he finally realizes how ridiculous and incredible it all really is.

“I’d always thought I hated him, you know? Because he was so mean. Clearly. But after Sectumsempra, I… saw another side of him. He’s going through so much right now. In a moment, that all became clear to me. We’re different in every way. I think that’s why this feels so right, so different from anything else I’ve had.”

“Or maybe it feels different because you’re with a man,” Hermione says, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. Harry laughs.

“It just feels...correct. I love Ginny--I really do, swear on Merlin--but I…. I don’t know.”

The smile disappears from Hermione’s face. She suddenly looks very cold, very stern.

“Harry, you’ve got to tell her. And if you’re not ready to tell her, at least end the relationship. Ginny’s my friend, too, and it’s not fair to ask me to keep this from her.”

Harry looks away, his heart pounding in his chest. Hermione’s right. While it was unfair to keep something like this from his girlfriend, it was also unfair to ask her friends to keep it a secret.

“I’ll tell her soon,” he mumbles. “Just give me time.”

Hermione sighs and runs her fingers through her frizzy brown hair, tucking a stray lock of it behind her ear.

“I trust you to do the right thing, Harry. I always have.”

As she stands up and walks away, the pit inside of Harry’s stomach expands, pressing against his ribs, the cage of his heart.  _ This is all hurts much more than I expected,  _ he thinks.

* * *

“You’re beautiful. You know that, right?” Malfoy’s voice is soft against Harry’s ear. Shivers work their way down Harry’s back, gather at the curve of his spine.

“Not as beautiful as someone else I know,” Harry whispers playfully, turning his face so that his lips are centimeters away from Malfoy’s. Malfoy chuckles, a smile spread wide across his face.

“Who is that someone?”

“You’re a massive fucking idiot, Malfoy. Shut up and kiss me.”

And so Malfoy does, presses his lips against Harry’s, lets his hands wander into the other boy’s wild mane.

“Remember the first time?” Harry mutters, his breath hot and heavy against Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy nods slightly and pulls Harry into his arms so that they’re both facing the lake.

“Oh, Merlin, how I remember,” he says into Harry’s hair. 

“When you passed me that note, I thought you were asking me to a duel. I spent that whole day searching up crazy spells I could use against you. Then, when I came out here, and you looked fucking glorious under the glow of the moon, and you didn’t even have your wand out, I realized. And it was the greatest moment of my life. I swear,” Harry mutters, his hand on Malfoy’s buttocks. He traces soft circles into Malfoy’s cold, clear skin. And this, he thinks, this is what happiness must feel like.

“But later I took my wand out,” Malfoy says with a laugh. Harry grins.

For a moment, the two lie in complete silence. The ground is soft and wet beneath them, and the sky is an incredible indigo, and Malfoy’s hands on Harry’s chest have never felt more right, or real, or true.

“So, what are we going to do about the Weaselette?” Malfoy asks, breaking the silence. Harry closes his eyes.

“I don’t know, Malfoy. Don’t ask me those things, especially not now. I just want to enjoy tonight. Enjoy _ you _ .”

Malfoy sighs against the back of Harry’s ear. 

“Whatever, Potter.”

As Malfoy’s hand slides lower and lower down Harry’s chest, every thought of Ginny and Hermione vanish from his mind. Now, it’s all about Malfoy.

“Fuck me,” Harry whispers, and so, under the curtain of the night, Malfoy ravages him once again. (It’s about both the power and the control. And, in secret, it’s also about the letting go.)

* * *

The common room isn’t busy. In fact, Ginny and Harry are some of the only students still left outside of the dormitory, and they sit together in one of the armchairs, Ginny’s cheek pressed against the top of Harry’s head.

“You’ve seemed off recently, Harry,” she says quietly. She reaches out and grabs one of Harry’s hands in hers, brings it to her lips and softly presses them against it. Harry closes his eyes.

“I’m just...stressed. You know, being the Chosen One and all,” he says in an attempt to lighten the mood. Ginny smiles and lets his hand fall back onto his lap.

“Yeah. Okay. I know.”

“Thank you for being so understanding,” Harry mutters earnestly. Ginny smiles at him.

“I love you,” she says. And it’s not like it’s the first time she’s said it, but it still hits Harry right in the center of his heart, splits his aorta and ventricles right in half. The wind’s been knocked out of him. His throat is sealed tight.

“I love you too,” he eventually replies. “Now, Ginny, I really best get to bed. I’m super tired,” he says, standing up.

Ginny nods before yanking his head down to hers, crashing her lips into his. They kiss for only a few seconds, mouths moving in mechanical unison. Harry pulls away quickly before planting another, softer kiss on her cheek. 

“Goodnight, my love,” Ginny says.

“Goodnight,” Harry replies before heading up the stairwell and climbing into bed, guilt already settling like knives under his skin.   
  



	3. Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Draco is supposed to be with Potter right now, underneath the whispering eaves and waning moon, his hands on the other boy’s skin, his toes curling, the grass cushioning them as they fall into each other. He should be there, convincing him to wade into the lake naked as they had only once before, the water cool and slick between their hot bodies. 

Instead, he’s here, next to his father, waiting for the arrival of their Dark Lord. The Death Eaters had been coming in for the past half hour, sometimes individually, sometimes in twos and threes. They’re all gathered in the parlor now, but he’s sitting here in the study, across from his Father and his thin, regal Mother. His face softens as he looks into her eyes, which are a warmer gray than his Father’s and more closely resemble his own. He feels a fondness towards her. She’s always been the one to protect him. 

He can tell that she’s fought this battle for him as long as she could, but that she couldn’t hold it off any longer. 

“Draco.” His Father’s voice is clear and steady. “You know what you’re here for, yes? You know that this has been coming for some time now.”

He nods, working the muscles in his jaw, clenching his fists until his knuckles are bone white. 

“And you know that this is necessary, so that you may have his Lord’s trust and protection.”

_ So that he won’t kill us all, you mean,  _ and it’s what Draco wants to say, but instead remains quiet, nodding again, avoiding his Father’s gaze. 

“ _ Draco _ ,” the older Malfoy’s voice is as sharp as a blade, “look at me.” Draco’s head snaps up, an icy fear running through his body. 

“It’s vital that you don’t muss this up, boy,” Draco recognizes the panic in the man’s eyes. He sees it every day in his own. “Use your Occlumency, if you must. But you are, in every way, to appear as his loyal subject.” 

Draco’s voice is a dull breath, “Yes, Father. I understand.” His parents look at each other and touch hands for a moment before standing to leave. His Father pauses for a moment, looks as if he has something more he needs to say, but instead leans down to encapsulate Draco in an awkward, bony hug. Before Draco can realize what’s happening, that, for the first time since he was perhaps a small child, his Father has  _ hugged  _ him, the embrace is gone. 

His Mother stops too, sheltering the bones of his gaunt cheeks with her palms, “He means well, darling. You- you’re his future, our future. He’s doing this because it’s what he believes is best for all of us.”

Draco gazes up at her, leaning into her touch, “And you, Mother? What do you believe?” 

A dark shadow passes over her face, and she drops her hands, turning away from him. He hears the caution in her next words.

“I believe, Draco, that I’ve taught you how to  _ survive _ . And that’s the most precious thing I’ve given you.” She turns her head a little, her gaze calculating and concerned, “So live, my son, even if it means living in these shadows until the day comes in which you can touch the light.” 

As the door to the study closes, Draco briefly wonders if his Mother somehow knows about him and Harry Potter, if she meant something more by telling him to wait to touch the light.

If she’s saying that Potter will get him killed if he’s not careful. 

He dismisses the thought. There’s no way for her to have known. Yet, a queasy uneasiness nests in Draco’s stomach. 

He makes his way to the parlor. He hears voices inside--Antonin Dolohov’s unmistakable accent, Fenrir Greyback’s rumbling growl, the Carrow’s crooning, sickening laughter.

His home is a place full of monsters. 

Nails grip into his shoulder as he reaches for the door, and he turns, fearing red eyes and a snake-like visage. Instead he in confronted by his Aunt Bella’s wild gaze and gnarls of hair. He relaxes, but only slightly. Aunt Bella is a crazy bitch if he’s ever met one, but he’d prefer her to You-Know-Who any day. 

Her lips twist into a smile, her teeth chipped and yellow, “Draco, my favorite nephew. Tonight is the night, child.” Her fingers dig deeper, and he resists wincing. 

“Hello, Aunt Bellatrix.” 

She barks out a laugh, “So formal, so polite. Your parents have raised you a bit too posh for my liking, I’m afraid.” Her hair falls into her face, giving her a harrowed, mad look, “Well, we’ll give it a few years a few hundred Unforgivables. I’m sure you’ll find it within yourself to let your more…” she licks her cracked lips, grinning, “ _ beastly  _ side shine through.” 

The queasiness he’d felt earlier has turned into a ghastly sickness burning at the back of his throat. Still, he keeps his face stony and pertinent to her words, quirking a brow, “We’ll see, Aunt Bella.” Her eyes search his face, and he’s afraid that she, a gifted Legilimens, will see past his barriers. 

His fears seem unwarranted. 

“Well, no sense dillying out here all day, letting them have all the fun,” she laughs as she grabs hold of his arm and opens the door. 

The room falls quiet as he enters. His Mother and Father are pale in the corner, and slowly, the Death Eaters begin to bow. Bellatrix looks behind them, her face pale, and she, too throws herself to the ground in worship. Tendrils of cold fill the room, and Draco feels hot, sticky breath at his neck. He turns stiffly, his whole body screaming for him to run. 

Eyes as red as blood find his, and he wishes he could find it in himself to look away.

He drops to his knees next to his aunt, blood running cold in the Dark Lord’s piercing gaze. Nagini slithers into the room, her tongue flicking into Draco’s ear as she hisses. 

“There’s no need to resemble a corpse, child,” the Lord’s smile is something between a snarl and a grin, and nervous laughter fills the room. His arm sweeps out over their heads.

“After all, are we not  _ friends  _ here, gathered for this  _ momentous  _ occasion?” Rushed murmurs of agreement resound in Draco’s ringing ears. Nagini circles back to him, her cold body brushing up against his. 

It’s all he can to to remain still and quiet. 

Suddenly, he feels his body being levitation, pulled quickly towards the Dark Lord. “I said,” the man growls, “ _ Are we not friends? _ ” Draco nods vehemently, eyes wide. He hears his Mother behind him, “Pardon him, M’Lord. He is young, and will learn with time spent under your benevolent command.” 

You-Know-Who looks at him for a moment, much in the same way Aunt Bella had earlier, before dropping the spell. 

“Yes,” he muses, “Benevolent indeed, Narcissa.”

The Dark Lord indicates for them to rise, and Draco stumbles to his feet. A light hand steadies him, and Draco turns to see his godfather, Snape, lingering in the shadows behind him. Snape nods to him, and Draco faces away, oddly comforted by the man’s presence.  

“We are here,” the Dark Lord declares, “To give a long overdue welcome to a new member within our ranks. Many of your children,” he pauses to nod at the Notts, the Crabbes, and the Goyles, “Have already officially joined our ranks. And now we welcome young Draco, who has been honorably tasked already with the infiltration of Hogwarts and the eventual murder of one Albus Dumbledore.” The room is tense, some eyes downcast, some boring into him.

“But first, one small task, Draco.” 

A hand seems to clamp over his heart, as Draco’s chest constricts and he struggles to maintain composure. 

“Bring the boy,” the Dark Lord commands, and Pettigrew, who Draco hadn’t even noticed before, scurries off. 

“I had heard that a certain  _ Mr.Potter, _ ” snarls You-Know-Who, “cast a dark spell at you hardly a month ago. That you were covered in deep, scarring wounds, marks that only dark magic could cause.”

There’s the sound of a struggle in the hallway, and then a prisoner is tossed into the room, his head down, and Draco’s breath catches. 

_ Potter _ . 

The boy looks up at him, glasses broken and nose bleeding and-  _ oh _ . Draco feels a sick, twisted relief calm him as he realizes that the person in front of him isn’t his lover. Just someone who resembles him remarkably, except that his forehead isn’t marred by any scar, and his eyes are a deep, warm brown, instead of Potter’s kind, piercing green. 

“For your initiation, Draco,” the Dark Lord settles into a seat in the crowd of Death Eaters, “I thought you could take out your revenge on this Muggle look alike.” 

“You want me to kill him?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and the room roars with laughter. The Dark Lord holds out a hand to command silence, raising his chin, “I want you to Crucio him to death, Draco. Release years of contempt towards the righteous  _ Harry Potter. _ ” The name is spit out as if it’s a vile, unnecessary thing, and Draco turns towards the body in front of him. 

But oh, even if it’s not Potter, the boy does bloody look like him. 

Draco pales as he looks closer. They’ve got the same mouth, he realizes, same strong jaw, lean body. Same mass of dark hair. He gulps and raises him wand, determined to get it over with.  _ Look into his eyes,  _ he tells himself, but You-Know-Who stops him, waving his wand and casting a light glamour on the Muggle. The spell takes form in a veil of green eyes and a scar, and Draco shakes, sure that if he stands here much longer he might fucking piss himself. 

_ It’s not Potter,  _ He tells himself as he raises his wand, and he pushes away the memories of them laying together under the stars, puts a wall between him and every stolen touch or glance that they’d shared,  _ It’s not Potter. _

He knows that you have to mean these curses, that there has to be a certain kind of hate behind them, so he thinks of the Dark Lord-  _ fucking Voldemort _ , he allows, and of this war, and how his own house has become just that: a house, a shell that once held the home he had loved as a small child. 

“CRUCIO,” He screams, and hears bones pop, sees limbs bend unnaturally as this Muggle who looks just like his Potter, soft, witty, sly, sexy Potter, convulses on the marble floors of the Manor. An odor fills the air and Draco realizes that the boy has shit himself, is gargling on his own vomit, and Draco casts the spell again and again until the body ceases to give even the smallest twitch or sound. 

* * *

Draco isn’t able to sleep when he slips back into his dorm that night, the mark on his arm aching like a fresh burn. Nott watches him all morning, tells him that he should eat something, but when Draco does try to choke down a piece of toast, he rushes to the restroom, barely able to keep the vomit in his throat long enough to make it to the toilet.

He hears footsteps on the cold tile. “Bugger off,” he gasps, and his stall door clicks open. Theo is standing there, his features gentle and full of pity. He locks the door behind them and sits next to Draco. They’re silent for a moment, a faucet dripping somewhere in the room. Finally, Theo shifts, pulling a phial full of clear liquid out of his pocket. 

“Dittany solution,” he explains. “It should take some of the sting out.” Draco nods, grateful, taking it from him. A pause, a heartbeat or two of more silence.

“It’s the screams that are the worst, yeah?” Theo closes his eyes, swallowing, “Those muggles- they’re not used to magic. It affects them even worse, maybe, I think. Their screams sound like,” he looks at Draco now,th “Like the sound was ripped from somewhere unholy, deep within.” 

Draco swallows the Dittany, nodding in agreement. He could still hear those throaty, animalistic shrieks. He thinks that maybe he always will.

* * *

 

After his last class of the day, Draco is on his way to the library to find some kind of solace, when something unseen yanks the back of his cloak and pulls him into a classroom. Draco looks around, panicking when he sees no one, but then Potter’s head appears, floating, and then his whole body is revealed as a shimmering cloak falls to the floor. 

Draco curses, “What the bloody hell-” 

Potter crosses his arms. “Where were you last night?”

Draco looks away, his voice cold. “I got caught up. Zabini needed help with-” 

“Bollocks, Malfoy, don’t fucking lie to me-” Potter grabs Draco’s arm and he hisses in pain, pulling away. Potter’s brow creases, confusion clouding his face before realization dawns. Before Draco can stop him, Potter jerks up his cloak sleeve, revealing the red, raw mark on his forearm.

Draco feels a surge of sorrow and guilt, reaching for him, “Potter-” 

“Don’t bloody touch me-” 

“You don’t understand, Potter, there are factors at play-” 

“ _ Factors at play, _ Malfoy?” Potter sneers, and Draco’s heart lurches, and right then, he wonders why Potter wasn’t put into Slytherin- he’s got the venom for it, that’s for sure. “The only fucking  _ factor at play  _ is that you’re a Death Eater, you  _ chose  _ to be a Death Eater, you left me to join the people-” Potter’s voice cracks, and Draco wants to hold him close, “the ones who killed my godfather, the only real family I had left.”

Draco opens his mouth, but Potter cuts him off.

“Now I  _ wish  _ that you’d been doing what I thought you were doing, cheating on me, whoring yourself out to Zabini-”

“ _ Zabini!?” _

“Getting on your bloody knees for him, because don’t think for a minute I haven’t seen the way he looks at you-”

Something inside of Draco snaps. He presses Potter up against a desk, lifts him up and pins him there by standing in between Potter’s knees. 

“I couldn’t cheat on you, Potter, because we’re not together. You’re the one balls deep in that  _ sodding  _ redhead-” Potter opens his mouth, and Draco kisses him hard, biting and sucking at his lips viciously.

“The only whore, here, Potter is you. You’re my Gryffindor whore, and that’s all you are, my  _ dirty little fucking secret _ -”

He rips Potter’s shirt open, his hands craving the warmth of his body, and Draco could never tell him that he needs to touch him because he needs to know that he’s alive. 

Potter tugs at Draco’s clothes desperately, and Draco pulls off his shirt, capturing Potter in a kiss, softer this time, full of all the things left unsaid. Potter pulls back and cradles Malfoy’s arm in his, stroking him thumbs around the edge of the Mark, “Malfoy,” he whispers, and there’s so much fear there, so much concern, that Draco can’t help but gather him to his chest and smooth his hair back, “I know. It’ll be okay. Merlin, I don’t know how, but-” 

Potter wraps his legs around his waist, leaning up and kissing him, a sweet press of his lips that tastes like a prayer. He leans his head against Draco’s bare chest, drawing circles into his skin, and Draco closes his eyes, feeling tears well up. He holds them at bay, but just barely, and pulls Potter closer to him. This boy, this beautiful boy, is his only salvation. 

“Well, well,” a familiar voice drawls, “This is a bloody surprise.” A smirk that Draco knows too well appears, a toss of hair that he’s seen since childhood-

Blaise fucking Zabini. 


	4. Such pure leaps and spirals

“Hey, Ron, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Harry says, clearing his throat. Now’s his chance.  _ I’m really going to do it,  _ he thinks.  _ I’m really going to tell my best mate that I’ve been cheating on his little sister with our arch nemesis. _

Almost more than he’s afraid of Ron’s reaction about his sister, he’s afraid of Ron’s reaction about his sexuality. He’d never actually admitted to it before-- even with Hermione, the words never escaped his lips--and he’s sure that Ron would be freaked out by the idea of someone with whom he’d shared his room, his  _ bed,  _ being a fairy, a fag, a--

“Yeah? Everything okay?” Ron asks, rummaging around his his bag for something. (Clearly  _ not  _ paying attention.)

“Sort of--”

“Harry! I totally forgot to tell you about Lavender Brown!” Ron suddenly exclaims, a smile spreading across his face. Harry’s heart drops to his feet. 

“What about her?”

“We shagged.”

For a moment, all thoughts of Malfoy escape Harry’s mind. For a moment, he’s completely focused on Ron’s proclamation. For a moment, he’s not scared shitless about admitting to something he’s tried for so long to keep a secret.

“Holy fuck! Merlin! Crazy to think that you’re no longer a virgin,” Harry says with a playful laugh. Ron rolls his eyes, clearly proud of himself.

“Well, looks like one of us has finally lost it.”

“Actually-” Harry stops himself. He and Ginny had never gone all the way before, and while he most definitely  _ wasn’t _ a virgin, he didn’t want her older brother possibly dropping hints about something that wasn’t going on. “Yeah. I hate admitting to it. But yeah.”

Ron grins and slaps Harry on the shoulder.

“It’s okay. We’ve all been there. Now, what was it that you were wanting to tell me?”

Harry tries to speak, but his voice is lost in his throat, still trapped in the base of his lungs along with everything else he’s tried to suppress (and it’s not like he knows how to forklift, how to reach and pull and  _ speak.  _ This tongue has been many places and said many things, but now it simply presses against the back of his teeth and waits, poignantly, and, Harry thinks, rather stupidly.)

“I-”

“You okay, mate?”

And then Harry sees him.  _ Malfoy.  _ His blonde hair seems shorter now, paler, but still beautiful all the same. Malfoy glances at him and the ice that seems to perpetually cloak his face appears to melt a little, and his cheeks flush the same color as his prick when--

As soon as he sees him, he’s gone. Harry’s stopped in his tracks, breath caught in his throat.

“Harry!” Ron yells, already almost a meter in front of him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles. “I lost track of time there, for a second.” He jogs forward until he’s walking next to Ron, who, again, rolls his eyes.

“Come on. We’ve got to get to Potions. Slughorn may actually chop us up and use us for Draught of Living Death if we’re late again,” Ron says tauntingly.

_ Potions. With Malfoy.  _ Harry had completely forgotten about this fact until now, and he can’t stop a smile from tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Right. Yeah. And we can’t let that happen, can we?”

If this is how things could go on forever-- Harry and Ron, Harry and Ginny, Harry and Malfoy in secret, kissing and loving and shagging and touching--then Harry thinks that he would be completely, totally, and unequivocally okay with that. 

* * *

During Potions, Harry finds it more difficult than usual to keep it in his trousers. Malfoy knows this better than anyone, slides Harry a note that reads, in its usual messy scrawl,  _ Room of Requirement after class. Also, everything’s okay with Zabini. He’s not mad. And he’s not going to tell anyone, as far as I know. _

By the time Harry’s inside of the Room, he’s nearly bursting out of his knickers. He presses himself against the cool stone wall and waits for Malfoy to come join him.

Finally, Malfoy joins him, throws his school bag on the ground and grins as he nears Harry.

“Sorry ‘bout that-- Crabbe and Goyle just wanted to talk their stupid fucking heads off, you know? And of course I had to listen to them. Forgive me, my Gryffindor slag.” Harry laughs and grabs Malfoy by the waist, pulling him close.

“Kiss me,” he whispers. Almost instantly, Malfoy does as he’s told and leans in close, licks Harry’s lips before diving between them. Slowly, he raises Harry’s arms up from his hips and pins them to the wall behind them. Harry moans softly, bites Malfoy’s bottom lip in response.

“You beautiful, wretched lad,” Malfoy breathes, pausing the kissing for a moment to take off both his and Harry’s cloaks and shirts.

As soon as Harry’s pale neck has been fully revealed, Malfoy begins kissing it, working his way from the other boy’s ear to his Adam’s apple, which he sucks until Harry lets out a groan of pleasure.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” Harry says with a smile. Malfoy, without a reply, begins kissing Harry’s lips again. 

“My turn,” Harry suddenly exclaims, this time pushing Malfoy against the wall. Malfoy grins.

“Finally using that Gryffindor courage for something worthwhile, eh?”

“Shut up and let me go down on you.”

Harry kisses down his neck before sucking on each of Malfoy’s nipples, both hardened and rigid against his tongue. Then he kisses down Malfoy’s stomach, hands already undoing the buttons and zipper of his trousers.

Come to think of it, Harry realizes, he’s never truly seen Malfoy’s manhood in the light of day, and, he notes, it really is quite a beautiful sight. Not too long, but plenty wide, with a light sprinkle of hair here and there, tip red like his lips, his flushed cheeks--

Just as Harry begins kissing the half-hard shaft, the sound of a door opening echoes through the room.

_ “Shit,”  _ Harry breathes, quickly pulling away in an attempt to find his clothes. Malfoy does the same, but it’s too late. Ron Weasley is staring at both of them, arms folded angrily across his chest.

“Two days in a row of getting caught. I’d say that’s a new record,” Malfoy sneers, pulling his sweater down over his head.

“Just for once, can you not be a prick?” Harry asks Malfoy, disappointment and fear written all over his face. Malfoy sighs, and the two turn to face Ron.

“Ron, I can explain--”

“No, Harry. No, you fucking can’t.”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Harry tries feebly, but Ron rolls his eyes. He may be daft sometimes, though he’s no idiot.

“Yes, it is. How could you not tell me this?  _ Any  _ of this? I’m your best mate. Your best FUCKING MATE!” Ron shouts, throwing his wand down on the floor. “This whole time, I’ve let you borrow my clothes, spend weeks in my house, and you’ve been bent the entire  _ fucking  _ time? Has this been going on for years? You know, I’ve had fears that I’ve been nothing but a sidekick to you, but this….now I know who I am. I know my fucking place.”

Harry’s never seen Ron this mad. The cage of his heart opens, closes. Opens, closes. To speak would be an admittance, so he swallows silence until he feels whole, takes off his glasses and watches the world, suddenly deliciously blurry, spiral around him. If he focuses hard enough, he is back to being six years old, back to being under the cupboard, back to being hit and kicked and unable to clearly see those who were hurting him--

“Can you leave, weasel?” Draco smirks. “Clearly, you are not welcome here.”

“How about you leave, Malfoy? This is between me and Harry.” 

“No.”

“Ron...I’ve been meaning to tell you for weeks. It’s just-- it never seemed like the right time. I could never catch you alone, or you wanted to talk about something else, and I, I, I  figured I would tell you as soon as the right moment came along. I swear.”

“Does my sister know?”

Harry puts his glasses back on and looks away. Just as there was a hint of forgiveness in Ron’s voice, Harry was about to break it.

“No. I-erm-I’ve also been meaning to get on that.”  
“You’ve been _cheating_ on my _sister_ with Draco ‘smeg-head’ _Malfoy_?” The disgust in Ron’s voice is overwhelming. Harry cracks his knuckles as he nods.

“Hey,” Malfoy interjects. “What did you just call me, you ugly tosser?”  
“Smeg-head. You absolute fucking wanker.”

Malfoy shakes his head, mouth set firmly into a grimace. A really fucking scary looking grimace.

“Malfoy, please--” Harry stops when he sees Ron walking away. Just as he’s about to exit, he turns back around, a fist clenched at his side.

“You’ll regret this.”

And with that, he leaves. Harry stands up and gently lays a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder.

“I’ll sort it out with him. He won’t do anything. But still. I mean… we’ve really fucked up this time. More so than with Zabini,” Harry says quietly, slowly embracing Malfoy, who awkwardly wraps his arms around Harry’s waist.

“But we always find our way back to each other,” Malfoy assures him. “Fucking always.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, letting out a breath that tickles the hairs on the back of Malfoy’s neck. “You’re right. Always have. Always will. That’s my disgusting, horrible, beautiful, fucking wonderful Slytherin. Mine.”


	5. Surely they travel the world forever

 

Draco’s got a headache so bloody awful, you’d think that he’d have gone out for a run in with the Whomping Willow.

He sets his charms book to the side and sighs. There’s no way he’ll be able to focus on homework now, even though exams are hardly a month away. He’s got half a mind to go and ask Theo for more Dittany, say that it’s for the Mark, but the pain had ebbed away after that first day. He jumps, startled, as the door opens to the empty dorm, lays back in a huff when he sees who it is. 

“Bloody hell Blaise, I’ve managed to avoid you for this long, don’t you think that you could give me enough time to crawl out the window? A five minute head start, at least,” Draco says.

Draco almost wishes that Blaise had reacted like Weasley, which was a somewhat  _ normal  _ reaction to finding out your poof of a best friend is shagging his enemy. 

But instead, Blaise had cocked a brow, licked his lips, and said, “It’s no wonder you fuckers are shagging, you’re the most bloody fit boys in our year. Well, besides me. It’d be tragic if you weren’t hooking up, really.” Potter had been absolutely mortified when Blaise had gone on to say, “Oi, I didn’t know you were bent, Potter. I’d have gone for you too.” He’d paused, grinning, “Say, mate, do you call Potter’s prick Golden Boy or The Chosen One?”

He’d been entirely too  blasé about the whole thing, but then, that’s how Zabini acts about everything, the wanker. 

That’s how he is now, too, as he struts in and stretches out on Draco’s bed. 

“Why do you care that I know, Draco?” He yawns. “It’s not as if I don’t have my fair share of dirty little secrets.” He smirks, “Some of them even Gryffindor.”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t know why I care. We’re just fucking.” 

Blaise raises a brow, “That looked like a lot less fucking and a lot more  _ cuddling,”  _ Blaise teases. Draco hits him with a pillow, but it’s half-hearted. He’s not sure what he and Potter are doing, but Blaise is right that it’s  _ more.  _ Theo had told him that day on the bathroom floor that the person they give you to torture is supposed to resemble the person you care most about. That Draco could feel like that towards Harry fucking Potter- well, that scares him. 

“Are you sure you don’t have veela in you, Malfoy? You certainly could if you’re able to land a sweet thing like Potter.” 

Draco scrunches his nose, “Don’t call him a sweet thing, that gross.” 

Blaise laughs, “You know that’s what you’re thinking when his mouth is around your-” He hits him with the pillow again, his face hot. Still, the thought makes him think of earlier that day, when what could have been a lovely blowjob turned into a shitfest. His headache returns, and he rubs at his temples, willing it away.

Blaise looks at him inquisitively, “What’s up, mate?”

Draco presses his fingers into his eyes, grunting, “The weasel caught Potter and me today.”

Blaise sits up, “ _ Caught  _ you? Like, caught you kissing, or-”

“Caught us as in, Potter was- how did you put it?  _ Being a sweet thing. _ ”

“Oh, Merlin, that’s disgusting when you add Ronald Weasley into it, jesus.” Blaise waves his hands, disgusted. “How did Weasley react? Not as well as I did, I take it.” 

“Not even close. Said some shit I’d expect to hear from my Father, really, not Potter’s sodding best mate.” 

“Well, I mean, he  _ is  _ cheating on the Weaselette with you. Can’t imagine that Won-Won is keen on that.” Draco flinches, hating that Blaise is right. He wouldn’t care if it weren’t for the fact that the whole thing is driving Potter insane with guilt. 

Theo comes in for a moment, and they fall silent, watching him as he grabs a book and walks back out. 

Blaise leans in close. “So how did it start, D? This whirlwind romance you’re having.”

Draco thinks back to the Sectumsempra incident, to his note, angry though it was, that requested that Potter come meet him in the forest by the lake. He’d wanted to show Potter the scars, bright and pink and angry. 

He hadn’t expected Potter to reach out and touch them, to break down into tears.

Draco clears his throat and looks away, “It was just… one of those things, you know?” he prods at Blaise’s side with his foot. “Now get the hell of my bed, you sodding smeg head.”

Blaise laughs, complying.

“Smeg head? What the hell is that?” He asks. Draco reclines, grinning. 

“Weasley is our king, mate, Weasley is our king.”

* * *

Draco’s bloody well determined to get exam scores as good as Granger’s this year, Brightest Witch of Our Age be damned, so he’s on his way to the library once again, when he hears Weasley, the obtuse pile of dung that he is, down a vacant corridor.

Draco casts a quick concealment charm over his presence, and then hugs the shadows behind statues, peering around the corner. 

What he sees makes his blood hot, and his eyes become shrouded in white hot rage. 

Ronald  _ sodding  _ Weasley, his clusterfuck of a wand held up to Potter’s throat.

“...don’t understand why the  _ fuck  _ you would do this to her, Harry. After how Dean treated her- you  _ know  _ she deserves better than this.” His voice cracks as he says, “She’s a decent sort, Harry, and she’s my bloody sister.” Draco hears Potter apologize, say he didn’t expect it to go this far.

“I was going to tell her, Ron, really, I was. Hell, I even tried to tell you-”

Ron snorts, “That’s a load of shit, Harry Potter, and you know it. You  _ wanted  _ to keep Malfoy a secret, you got off on it-”

“No, Ron, listen-” 

“ _ No _ , you listen, you mental fucking wanker. That’s my fucking sister, and she loves you, and the more I think about it the more I think I’ll have to do something about it-”

Draco sees the tip of Weasley’s wand glow red, and he reels, feeling the hairs on his neck stand on end, electricity in the air, and Weasley is blown back by unintentional magic, something primal inside of Draco that hadn’t been released since he was a child. Potter throws his hands up, trying to shrink into the stone wall.

“Ron, I swear, it wasn’t me this time.”

Draco slinks out of the shadows, dropping the charm.

“No,” he sneers, “it was me.” 

He hunches over Weasley, bracing his hands on his knees, “And if you ever touch a bloody hair on that  _ gorgeous  _ man’s head again, well…” He smirks, straightening, “I’m stronger than I look, Weasel.” 

Draco’s a damn good Legilimens when he needs to be, and he sends an image to both Potter and Weasley of Draco and Potter in the forest, Potter on his hands and knees, moaning and crying out as Draco rams into him from behind, his hands pulling Potter’s head back from the roots of his hair. 

When he pulls out of their minds, Draco notes Potter’s hard breathing and flushed face, his averted eyes. Weasle stumbles back, his face contorted into a picture of disgust. He scrambles away from the both of them, shooting a glare back over his shoulder. 

Anger seeps out of Potter, taking Draco by surprise. 

“You shouldn’t have shown him that, Malfoy.” Draco rolls his eyes, unintimidated by the Gryffindor oaf.

“Why? It’s not like he doesn’t know already.”

Potter comes closer. It’s not just anger, Draco realizes, biting back a smile, it’s pure, unadulterated  _ lust _ . “Because,” Potter snaps, “There are some things that I get to be selfish about, you fucking wanker.”

Draco pushes him up against the wall, pins his wrists above his head with one hand, and shuts the fucking arse up by flicking his tongue out along Potter’s lip, by gripping his jaw and claiming Potter as his. His tongue runs over Potter’s, and the boy moans, a long, sweet sound that goes straight to Draco’s groin. He rubs up against him, gasping, needing more than a clothed grind. He fumbles with his belt, confused when Potter stops him. 

And oh, fuck,  _ Merlin _ , the way Potter looks right now is delectable. His lips are swollen and pink, his hair mussed up, the line of his cock swollen in his slacks. Draco licks his lips, 

“You look positively  _ edible _ , Potter. I could devour you.” 

Potter bites his lip, holding Draco back and looking around. “Not here, anyone could see-”

“So? I’d think you like that, being the filthy fucking whore that you are.” Draco squeezes Potter’s arse and presses his thumb over the head of Potter’s prick through his trousers. Potter gasps, and something dark and delicious clouds his bright eyes. He picks Draco up roughly, throwing him over his shoulder and walking into the same abandoned classroom they’d been in when Blaise had caught them. Harry shuts and locks the door, casts a muffliato, and, in one fluid motion, slides Draco down off his back and flips him around, bending him over one of the desks. 

Draco pushes his buttocks back against Potter, smirking when he hears a moan, lovely and deep.

“Fuck, Malfoy, you’ve got the best arse. I love being inside of you.” Malfoy looks back and rolls his eyes, “More bite and less bark, yeah? If you love it so bloody much, I don’t see what you’re waiti-” Draco gasps at the sensation of Potter’s teeth sinking into his neck, the bite sharp. Potter blows a stream of cool air on it afterwards, making Draco shudder against him. He hears the drop of trousers behind him, feels the slick head of Potter’s cock.

“Lube,” Potter gasps out, and Draco glares at him, “Potter, if you stop right now, you filthy whore, you goddamned slag, if you don’t fuck me harder than you ever have and prove to me that you are, indeed, an actual  _ man _ , I’ll-” His voice fades into a stutter of small, helpless sounds as Potter rams into him all at once, spreading the cheeks of Draco’s arse and pounding into him so hard that the desk is moving with him. 

Draco grips his own cock in his palm and squeezes up and down, struggling to find a rhythm with Potter fucking him like the world might end, and it bloody well might after a shag like this. Potter hits something inside of him, a bundle of nerves deep inside that makes him drop his prick and cry out. 

“Oh, fuck,  _ please,  _ Potter, do that again-”

And Potter stops moving entirely.

Draco is beyond irritated. 

“What the fuck, mate? Why’d you stop?” 

Potter leans over him, massaging his bollocks, rolling and pinching at his nipples, and Draco’s chest heaves. “Please, keep going-”

“Say you’re my whore, Malfoy.”

Draco pales. “What?”

Potter draws nearly all the way out of him, both a threat to leave and a terribly  _ wonderful  _ promise to hit that spot again, fuck him raw. 

“Say you’re my bloody Slytherin whore, you fucking slag, that you’re mine and only mine, you goddamned  _ slut. _ ”

Draco pants, his cheeks flushed, and the first time, he mumbles it. “...your whore.” 

Potter shifts a little inside him, making Draco arch with pleasure. “What was that?” 

Draco moans, “I’m your fucking whore, only yours, I mean it, please  _ Merlin  _ fuck me-”

And Potter is moving again, just as viciously as the last time, hard and fast, and all Draco can think about is how Potter feels inside of him, and then everything feels suddenly  _ more _ : Potter’s quick thrusts, his lips on Draco’s neck, the splintered wood of the desk gripped beneath Draco’s palms, and he lets out a long, almost relieved moan when he comes. Potter slows, his thrusts more self-serving now, but Draco relishes being used by him. 

A moment or two later, Potter cries out, slumping against Draco’s back, their skin sticky with sweat and come, and even after their bodies are no longer joined together, Draco is sure he can still feel him. 


	6. I shall not entirely sit emptied of beauties

“That was….fucking insane,” Malfoy mutters, lying down in the crook of a spent, exhausted Harry. Harry sighs against the pale skin of Malfoy’s arm and presses his hand against his heart, which beats softly and quickly.

“All for you,” he whispers. 

Malfoy smiles. “You romantic fuck.”

For a moment, the two sit in silence and stillness. Harry kisses the back of Malfoy’s neck, sort of as he had earlier, only this time more softly, his lips gentle and warm. 

“Malfoy, I feel like there’s a lot that we need to be talking about. Now that we’re alone and less horny,” Harry says quietly. Malfoy can’t help but laugh.

“Less horny? Impossible.”

“Don’t ignore the first part of that statement,” Harry commands, voice stronger and more stern. “You have a Dark Mark. We never really discussed it before-- as usual, we went straight into shagging. But I feel like we need to say things about it, you know?” Harry asks, biting his lip.  _ I’ve gone over the line,  _ he thinks.  _ As per fucking usual. _

“Yeah. Well. It’s there. What else do you need to know?” Malfoy can’t keep the venom from escaping past his lips. Harry feels Malfoy’s chest tense against his. In an attempt to keep him from getting angry, Harry takes the hand that was resting against Malfoy’s thigh and moves it to his chest, tenderly running his fingers across his smooth skin.

“I just…” Harry’s voice trails off. Like a songbird trapped in a cage, he feels things move through him like an empty carcass. These days, breathing simply slips down his throat and sits in the caverns of his stomach, waiting for release. It never finds it. In this way, Harry knows that he is too similar to everything around him. The songbird hovers between his ribs. He swallows until she drowns.

“Potter?” Malfoy says his name with a tenderness that sends Harry’s skin rippling into flames. Smiling to himself, he raises the songbird--which, he discovers, is really a phoenix-- to his throat until he builds the courage to reply.

“Your people. They killed my family. All of them. You-Know-Who? He’s the reason my parents are gone, my friends, Sirius. You joined them. Your parents may have forced you, but some people would rather  _ die  _ than do that. Rather  _ die.  _ I certainly know now why you weren’t picked for Gryffindor. You don’t have a brave bone in your body.”

Harry regrets the words as soon as he’s said them. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth now, too wide for his teeth.

“That was a low blow, Potter,” Malfoy says, “but I understand, I think, and I’m sorry.”

It’s the first apology Harry’s ever received from him. And he has a feeling that Malfoy’s saying sorry for a lot more than just the Mark-- he’s saying sorry for everything. Absolutely everything. Harry’s heart is now a balloon, and it pops, pops, pops.

“I want this to last forever,” he says before he can stop himself. “Do you?”

Malfoy tenses again against Harry.

“Forever is a long arse time, Potter. But yes. I think yes.”

That’s the only answer Harry needs.  _ Pop. Pop. Pop. _

“If Ron hasn’t already gotten to her, I’m telling her in the morning.”

* * *

When Harry traipses up to the dormitory, it’s almost morning. The sun is creeping its way up from behind the faint line of the horizon, and a golden glow seeps through the castle like honey. ( _ If it were, I would pour it all over Malfoy and lick it off--) _

Harry shakes his head.  _ It’s 6 AM. No need to be thinking those things at this ungodly hour. _

But it’s not like he hadn’t slept. Last night, he and Malfoy had spent hours resting together, his head on Malfoy’s stomach, Malfoy’s hands in his hair, simply talking. About everything. About how things are actually much harder than they seem, and it’s Lucius and Narcissa, really, that make Malfoy the way he is, and considering the fact that Harry has no parents, he feels that, in the end, it’s all pretty easy to forgive.

As he climbs the stairwell and enters the common room, he feels an intense relief wash over him. Not only had he spent the night with Malfoy, he’d also escaped the clutches of Filch on the way back.  _ Then again,  _ he thinks,  _ the man’s got to sleep at some point. _

6:07. The euphoria from the night falls away quickly as he realizes that he only has another hour before the Gryffindors start filling up the common room, and Ginny will be wondering where he is, and, oh, that songbird, that phoenix, is still caged, is still just ashes. 

One hour.

* * *

“Harry! Where were you last night? I missed my goodnight kiss,” Ginny jokes, planting a kiss on Harry’s lips. “You… smell different. Harry, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course--”

“Oh my god.” The smile falls off Ginny’s face as she seems to have realized something, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “You were with another girl. You were, weren’t you?” She exclaims, taking a step away from him. All of a sudden, both Ron and Hermione appear behind her. 

“Ginny, what’s going on?” Hermione asks, placing a hand on the shoulder of her younger friend. 

And then it clicks into place. Hermione opens her mouth into the perfect shape of an ‘o,’ and Ron folds his arms across his chest in a way that only sends Harry further into panic mode.

“Harry wasn’t here last night. And he came back in smelling different. I don’t know. I just don’t know,” Ginny whimpers, sitting down in one of the armchairs. “I’ve always been the perfect girlfriend. Giving you  _ everything.  _ Except my body-- is that what this is about?”

Harry shakes his head before launching into a “No, Ginny, you’re beautiful! You’ve got the completely wrong idea!”

Still, she disappears back up the stairs almost immediately. Hermione and Ron stare at him, anger riddling their features.

“You haven’t told her yet?” Harry mumbles, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robes.

“You’ve got two days,” Ron says seriously. “Two days, and that’s it. If not, we tell her absolutely everything. And Dumbledore, and anyone else who’ll listen. You hear me? Two days, Potter.”

Harry nods, his glasses sliding down his nose. 

“Really, Harry, I would’ve expected more from you,” Hermione whispers into his ear on their way out. And, all at once, Harry’s left alone in the common room, the songbird, no longer the phoenix, lying bruised at the base of his throat.


	7. The gift of your small breath

The weekend rolls around quicker than it ever has, and with every day that passes, Draco can feel the bird in his own heart grow thinner, cower and croon. The cupboards are nearly fixed now, and Draco knows that he can only fabricate excuses for his slow pace so many times. He knows that the day will come when he points his wand at Dumbledore- one of the only men left that feels like a father, Potter had told him- and the beautiful, green-eyed boy would never want to speak to him again. 

The thought makes his heart plummet to his knees. 

But then he thinks of the Potter look alike writhing in front of him, dying at his own hand, and Draco knows, then, in those fleeting moments when he lets himself be realistic, that the only way to keep Potter safe is to let him go before the night of Dumbledore’s death. 

He just didn’t expect Potter to hold on so dearly.

He and Potter are laying together in that spot that could be called nothing other than theirs, just laying, exchanging rare, light touches and kisses. Draco feels selfish, letting himself be doted on like this, letting this drag on longer than it has to. Potter had told him that Ginny had become suspicious this morning, that she had left in tears, and Draco would feel sorry for her if he weren’t so bloody infatuated with her boyfriend. 

Potter, Draco sympathizes, is a hard person to lose. 

Draco thinks of what Potter had said to him the other night, curled into each other in that musty classroom. 

_ I want this to last forever.  _

Potter buries his nose into Draco’s neck now, breathing deeply. Godric, Draco wants this to last forever too, wants to wake up next to this slag of a man in ten, twenty years. Or even, and Draco aches at this, wake up unafraid next to an empty pillow, know that Potter had simply gotten up early to make breakfast. Draco closes his eyes and imagines padding out to their kitchen, the flowers from their window box- Draco loves to garden- permeating the air. He thinks of wrapping his arms around Potter’s middle from behind, murmuring a sweet good morning into his spine. 

This is Draco’s happiest thought.

He could never tell Potter that it’s what he uses to conjure his Patronus, that he had never 

able to cast one before Potter and he took each other as lovers. Nor, Draco muses, would he tell him that his Patronus takes the form of a small, happy looking corn snake. 

“Mmm,” Potter kisses his neck chastely, “You smell amazing.” 

Draco leans back against him, feeling vulnerable with his dopey smile and old t-shirt. 

“What do I smell like?” 

Potter inhales again, his thumb making small strokes across Draco’s stomach.

“Like...cedar, and lemongrass, and…” He chuckles, a sound full of sunshine, “Roses?” Draco laughs and swats at him playfully.

“Fuck you! I enjoy the full advantages of the Prefects bath, that’s all.”

“We should enjoy them together sometime.”

“Slag.”

“You love it.”

The air is getting warmer now that they’ve turned the corner in June, and Draco wonders if he should tell Potter that his birthday is only a few days away. Probably not. The bloody Gryffindor would make a fuss about it, and he’s already got one doting mother, thanks. 

Draco looks at his arm, bare and a raw sort of ugly. He turns his head, propping his chin on Potter’s shoulder, contemplating. 

“What did you mean by forever?” 

Draco’s heart is hard in his chest, the song bird there shrieking for him to stop instigating. Because that’s what he’s really doing, isn’t it? Even laying here, cradled in Potter’s frame, he can’t help but push him away. 

Life ruiners, heart quenchers, never giving a second glance; that’s the Malfoy way.

Potter’s hold on him tightens, his breath a warm, small comfort. 

“I meant...” the leaves whisper to them and the the air becomes tight with tension, “that when I’m with you, it feels like I could keep going like this. Like there’s nothing that happened before us, or after us, and I all I know is that I wish I could feel like this, be with you, all the time. Forever.” 

Draco bites down on the inside of his cheek until it bleeds, willing the sob in his throat down. He moves away from Potter, and he has never felt colder. 

“I don’t want forever.” 

The words are quiet, but Draco makes them come out firm and icy. Forever scares him, because Draco knows that it would take just a small part of forever, a tiny bite out of always, to get Potter hurt in a way that means he’ll never be able to defeat the Dark Lord.

Draco decides, then, that he has to wrench himself away from this. To protect Potter, to at least be able to hold onto the memories they’ve shared and know that the bloody gorgeous dunce that had given them to him is still out there, still alive and breathing. 

Potter’s visage is full of coarse, blunt pain, and Draco can feel the bird in his chest dying. 

“I’m not asking for forever, Malfoy, I didn’t mean to imply-”

“But you  _ did.” _

“I’m sorry, please-” a hitch in his syllables, wet and hoarse, “please don’t go.” 

Draco turns away, hearing Potter’s last shouted words at him.

“ _ I’m not giving up on you, you Slytherin piece of shit!” _

Draco walks away from him through the grove, the bows of the trees moving and catching at his ankles, and when he is gone, even the forest weeps for them. 

* * *

Draco wears Potter’s shirt to bed that night.

He’d given it to him one night, after Draco had offhandedly mentioned that he’d been getting nightmares, that sleeping had become harder and harder. Draco buries his nose in the worn, yellow sleeve, breathing in the last traces of Potter’s smell. 

_ Mint, and grass, and…  _ tears come to Draco’s eyes,  _ something sweet, vanilla, maybe.  _ His dreams are terrors that night, and he spends most of his time awake, staring at nothing, wishing that Slytherin dorms weren’t in the dungeons so that he could at least look out at the moon. 

Morning comes slowly, draping heavily over Draco. The curtains on his bed rustle, and he’s feeling a lot less sorry for himself and more angry that he could let himself be consumed by someone like this, so irrevocably, so intensely. Blaise’s head peeks through the curtain, and Draco reaches out his hand, which is nothing more than a taut, stretched skin acros a thin webbing of bones. 

Draco hasn’t had the stomach to eat, knowing that he’ll soon have to reach down and find the courage in his gut to kill Albus Dumbledore, to betray every last sodding person in this castle. 

Blaise perches on the end of his bed, faced away from him. “Everyone’s gone to breakfast.”

“That’s nice for them, Zabini.”

Draco sits up and moves closer to his friend, frowning. 

“Why won’t you look at me.” A soft quirk of Zabini’s mouth, and Blaise lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yellow’s always been an awful color on you, mate.” He looks into his eyes then, and there’s a materialistic spark, a fragment left over from what could have become of them. 

Draco is seldom impulsive, but he sees a wretched solution, a way to push Potter away, once and for all. He leans forward, pressing his fingers against the scruff along Blaise’s jaw, and kisses him. 

It’s soft at first, as they taste each other, their bodies not used to each other’s rhythm. Draco opens his eyes, Zabini’s long lashes against smooth cheekbones, and watches him as the kiss deepens, Blaise’s tongue dipping into Draco’s mouth, curling up against the roof. 

They pull away from each other, and there is none of the need, the ache, the desperation that Draco feels with Potter, and he knows that he’s been absolutely ruined for love now, spoilt with Potter’s kisses and heat. 

Blaise smiles softly, sorrow in his eyes. They watch each other, and they know it’s the last time either of them will ever touch like that. 

“We could have been something, once.” Zabini sighs.

Draco smiles, knocking his childhood friend’s shoulder with his own, “You’d get fed up with my shit too quickly. We’d kill each other.”

Blaise barks out a laugh, “You’re probably right.”

There’s clunky silence for a moment, and Draco claps a hand on his shoulder, “Breakfast then, yeah?”

Blaise looks down, fiddling with his hands. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Breakfast.”

* * *

Draco is walking through the halls, the traffic around him noisy with people heading to Hogsmeade. He sees Potter in the crowd, and their eyes meet as they pass. He feels a warm, familiar hand at his wrist, and he wants to cry at the touch. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise stop with him.

Draco sneers. “What do you want, Potter?” 

He sees a toss of red hair behind the other boy, and a curvy, small frame. The Weaselette entwines her fingers with Potter’s, glaring at Draco. “Sod off, Malfoy.”

Draco laughs, “Sorry to disappoint you,  _ Ginevra,  _ but Potter’s the one bothering me, this time.”

The couple are clad in common, everyday clothes, and Draco thinks bath to the sweater left in the bottom of his drawer. His eyes narrow, sure that Potter was taking his little  _ girlfriend _ , bitch that she is, out on a date. 

Potter’s looking at him with those big, doe-like eyes, and Draco fights to keep his face irritated. 

“We need to talk, Malfoy.”

Draco steps closer, blocking Potter’s body from the Weasley girl’s view. He lets his hand rub up against Potters hip, and Draco breathes hard, wondering if he should really do this. He’s sure that, right now, Potter would still forgive him, would take him back with open arms, fucking sorry, kind sap that he is. 

Once more, he remembers the night he took the Mark. The suffocation he’d felt when the boy’s body was finally still, his dark hair plastered to his cold skin. He thinks of that being Potter, instead, and hardens his resolve, using Legilimency to send an  unforgivable image into Potter’s mind.

In the memory, the room is bathed in the warm light of the dungeon’s lanterns. Draco is wearing Potter’s yellow sweater, the one that he loves so much, and Blaise’s hands are bunched in it, pulling Draco closer as they kiss, their lips working smoothly. Draco’s chest constricts as he can feel Potter’s pain, sharp and clear, throughout his whole body. He pulls out of his mind, looking into wet, hard eyes, and stumbles away from him quickly. 

He straightens, curling his lips menacingly, “I think I’ve said all that needs to be said, you filthy pile of shit.” He spits at Potter’s feet, seeing only a glimpse of the pain in his eyes before storming away.

_ At least,  _ Draco thinks, his whole body aching with despondency, with a sadness that he knows he’ll never quite get rid of,  _ At least he’ll be safe, my sweet, beautiful boy.  _

But not his. Not anymore. 


	8. The drenched night smells of your sleeps

Harry can’t sleep.

Every time he closes his eyes, he’s met with visions of Malfoy. Of how Malfoy could make him happy when he thought there was nothing lovely or true left in the world. Of how Malfoy made him feel beautiful, and real, and loved. Of how Malfoy, to him, meant safety. Meant home.

The last time he’d felt as broken as this was when Sirius had died.  _ No,  _ Harry thinks.  _ No more Sirius. It’ll only make you feel worse. _

Still. It’s not like his mind has ever learned to listen, and he can’t help but remember one of the last real conversations he and Sirius had-- it was over Christmas holiday, and Harry was sitting on his bed, and Sirius had walked in, a small smile playing on his lips.

They’d talked for a few minutes-- mainly about all of the horrible things happening at Hogwarts (Harry still shudders at the mention of Umbridge’s name)--and when Sirius had stood up again to leave, he’d looked at Harry in the eyes and said, “No matter what, no matter who you are, I will always be here. Always in your heart.”

Now, Harry supposes that perhaps Sirius knew him even better than he’d known himself. Somehow, he’d seen all of it coming. 

Suddenly sick to his stomach, Harry jumps out of bed and runs to the lavatory, tears sitting in the hoods of his eyes.  _ Don’t start crying. The toilets may not be empty. _

Sure enough, they aren’t. When Harry swings open the door to the boy’s room, Ronald Fucking Weasley is leaning against the sinks, staring at himself in the foggy mirror. All nausea and thoughts of Sirius disappear as the two lock eyes.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama bottoms. Ron, in his typical fashion, folds his arms across his chest. Harry had never really given it much thought before, but in the dim glow of the fluorescent lights, Ron looks a little scarier than usual, a little more tough. Harry swallows deeply.

“You’ve hurt me, mate. And my sister. And Hermione. You’ve hurt us all,” Ron starts. Harry nods. “And I’m fucking tired of letting you win. Of letting you apologize and get off unscathed. It feels like you always do that. You just say that you’re Harry Potter, The Chosen One, and then you never have to feel any of the pain, any of the sacrifice that others have made. You know?” Ron takes a step forward. Harry, in a very wretched and stupid moment, realizes that he’s forgotten his wand.

“Yeah, I know,” he tries. Ron shakes his head.

“But you don’t.” 

And in a moment, his wand is raised above his head.

“You must take me and my family for idiots,” Ron says, his voice a low rumble. Harry takes a step backward towards the door.

“Calm down, Ron. Please, let’s just try and talk this out--”

Before Harry knows what’s happening, a deafening  _ Obliviate!  _ flies across the room. And just like that, in a single moment, it disappears. Every memory of Malfoy--gone. Every kiss, fuck, truth. Every  _ I love you  _ thought, but never spoken, never uttered. Every dream.  _ A house. A home. Our home. Forever. I want forever, though only with you, only ever with you. Let’s build a castle. Let’s fuck in a real bed. Touch this Mark and grant me your forgiveness. Eat me whole, scratch me raw, reveal what’s underneath, all those sweet and desperately rotten insides, be mine. Always mine. Always and forever. Kiss me hard, soft, touch me, feel me, tell me I’m pretty, whisper sweet nothings, absolutely nothing-- _

Harry opens his eyes. Ron gulps.

“You okay?” Ron whispers. Harry shrugs, skin pale and sweaty.

“Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason. Say, I’m tired. Let’s get to bed.”

The caged bird (the phoenix, the pile of ashes) inside of Harry’s stomach lies dormant. Its heart is pulsing outside of its chest. It has choked on its own blood. Harry supposes that in another place, another time, another life, he would find it relatable, beautiful, even, make poetry out of this death, yet now he simply shrugs, takes off his glasses, and says goodnight, his own voice a foreign body in a foreign land.

* * *

Ginny, Harry supposes, has never looked more radiant. In the brightness of the Great Hall the next morning, her skin seems to glow from the inside out. Her lips are plump and pink and, Harry takes great pleasure to note, appear more kissable than usual. He beams at her, eyes twinkling. She really is the most beautiful girl in the world. He’s absolutely sure of it.

“Harry,” Hermione says from across the table. “Stop ogling and eat.”

Harry chuckles deeply and shrugs, taking a bite of the sausage and egg on his plate.

“Sorry. I just-- Ginny, you look amazing,” he states. Ginny grins and pushes her hair out of her face.

“And you look tired,” she comments. Harry laughs again. He feels good, really-- better than good. He wonders if it’s something they put in the pumpkin juice.

“Still ogling,” Hermione comments a few minutes later.

“Oh, yeah, right,” Harry says distantly. Ginny meets his eyes and smiles. Harry’s heart drops to his feet before rising back up, this time more red and bleeding and swollen than ever.

And this is it. Harry knows now more than ever that she is not only his life now, but also his future. This is everything he has ever wanted, and more. 

Next to him, Ron eats his bacon and toast eagerly. And, really and truly and honestly and purely, if it weren’t for Voldemort, there wouldn’t be a thing wrong with the world.

* * *

That day, Potions is as slow as ever. Still. With the promise of the end of term approaching quickly, the three can get through just about anything.

“Say, Slughorn really is a little mad, isn’t he?” Ron comments after class. Harry laughs and nods in agreement, while Hermione furrows her eyebrows and tucks her book in her bag.

“Really, Ron, you shouldn’t be so rude about the professors. They could be standing right behind you, or  _ listening  _ with  _ magic--” _

“Oh, sod off, will you?”

And Harry doesn’t really know why, but it’s been a long time since he’s heard such banter between his friends. In fact, it’s been a long time since he remembers really moving through the day--

“Potter,” someone sneers from behind him. Harry whips around to come face-to-face with Malfoy.  _ Fuck,  _ he thinks.  _ Just what I need. Someone to come along and ruin a perfectly good day. _

“What the fuck do you want, Malfoy?” Harry jeers, taking a step forward. Hermione and Ron stop dead in their tracks, staring at the two. Malfoy glares at them both.

“Why do you need your little cheerleaders to constantly follow you around and protect you? I thought you were the Chosen One. I thought you could protect yourself,” Malfoy says snidely. Harry rolls his eyes.

“Leave them be.”

“Wow, clever comeback.”

“Shut up.”  
“Even more clever.”

Ron and Hermione exchange glances before Ron mutters something about having to study and the two wander off. Harry, suddenly feeling quite betrayed, turns to face Malfoy again, disgust painted all over his features.

“Thanks for that, Malfoy. You’re a clever ferret, aren’t you?”

Malfoy takes a step closer to him. 

“Potter,” he says quietly. “I was thinking we could talk about the other night. Meet in our classroom after dinner, yeah?” He breathes. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Harry asks, shaking his head. “You’re totally fucked up.”

“Have you lost your mind, Potter--”

“I think you have. Now, please. Leave me alone, tosser.”

Harry walks off before Malfoy can protest.

_ God, that was strange,  _ Harry thinks. But he doesn’t think about it too hard. His heart is light in his chest, almost as if it’s been drained. He can feel it beating there, a little stoically, though the fact that it’s still going, he supposes, is all that matters.


	9. Lilies, lilies

Draco felt as if he couldn’t move.

Standing there, in that hallway, watching Potter walk away, he felt his whole body tighten, and something was broken deep inside of him. There had been something important there- a song, a flutter of wings prompted by Potter’s touch and smile. And now- 

Cold ashes, no traces of glowing embers. Bent cage bars, perhaps a bit of his own heart’s blood splattered across the metal. 

Pansy is shaking him, and he thinks that her lips look very red, that her lashes look clumpy and thick with mascara. He thinks that she looks like she’s trying to be an adult, when the baby fat still hasn’t completely left any of their bodies. 

He feels like a child right now, consumed by the absence of someone who had given him a sense of home. 

He’d wanted to talk to Potter- to explain why he had done what he did. To perhaps confide in him about the oncoming raid on the castle. He had hoped- his mind swirls now, and he feels foolish- to breach the wall between them. 

“...aco…” He stumbles a bit, tongues the inside of his gummy, shredded cheek. 

“Draco!” His head snaps to Pansy and Blaise, and he’s sure that he looks a state, eyes wide, a trickle of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth from his bitten cheek. His friends watch him with careful concern, Blaise catching him by the arm, his face hard, and, Draco thinks, a little angry. 

“Fuck Potter,” he mutters, low enough so that Pansy can’t hear. “You deserve better.” 

“I don’t understand,” Draco whispers, and his head begins to pound. “He was different, something was…” Potter’s face hadn’t revealed a trace of emotion towards Draco, except the surface-level anger and irritation the two boys had shared before any of this happened. 

Blaise shifts, uncomfortable. “Maybe… ask the Weasel?” 

Draco looks at him as if he were mad. “Why in the bloody hell would I do that?” 

Blaise scratches his head. 

“He seemed off, Draco. Shifty, but a little smug, like he knows something that we don’t, that you don’t.” Draco thinks about it, and supposes that Blaise is right. Weasley had been more than smug- he’d been blatantly self-righteous. And Draco is intent on finding out why. 

* * *

He follows Weasley after dinner that evening, when the boy leaves his friends early. Draco thinks that’s odd- the redhead never skipped out on an opportunity to stuff his face. Still, no matter, all the better for Draco to confront him.

It isn’t until they had reached a long, winding staircase that Draco realizes that they’re heading to the Astronomy Tower. Weasley stops for a moment, looking around, and Draco hugs the shadows of the dim, stone walls. He waits with bated breath, for Weasley to round the last section of the stairs. 

When Draco opens the heavy, wooden door, he sees Weasley, standing at an arched window, looking out. Hot breath fans across the back of Draco’s neck, and he tenses, his heart hoping for a single, beating moment that it’s Potter, there to take him in his arms and tell him that, don’t worry, he was just joking earlier, he didn’t mean any harm- but Blaise’s familiar, smooth voice results in a heavy pang of sorrow, “What do you think the bloke is doing?” 

“ _ Shhh! _ ” Draco stares at him, wide eyed, confused as to why Blaise had followed him. The other boy quirks a brow, opening his mouth, but finds himself cut off by none other than Weasley himself.

“I knew you lot would follow me. ‘Spect you’re here about Harry, yeah?” His lip curls wickedly, “Seems much happier now, doesn’t he?”

Anger, and something else, something that Draco had grown used to over these months with the cupboard and the order to kill Dumbledore-  _ fear _ \- grips his heart. He grips his wand underneath his robes, relishing in the familiar hawthorne texture sliding beneath his fingers. Potter  _ had  _ seemed to have a sort of floaty bliss encompassing him when he was sitting with the Weaslette, as if someone had relieved him of all of his burdens and secrets- 

Draco stumbles towards Weasley, realization dawning on him like a heavy, sudden outpour of rain from the sky. He feels horror, a sort of sickening twist in his stomach that rears its head up in ugly, red rage. 

“You didn’t,” he whispers, and his voice comes out stronger than he expects. His grip around his wand tightens. 

A shadow passes over Weasley’s face- guilt?- before he covers it with an uncharacteristic sneer. Evil, Draco thinks, doesn’t suit the usually carefree Weasley. “I didn’t what, Malfoy? Please, tell me what I  _ didn’t  _ do.” 

Draco feels like doubling over, “He doesn’t remember me. You- you took me from him. Took him from me.” He takes a shaky breath, “You selfish, self-indulgent, self-serving-” 

“All I did was  _ save  _ him from you! He’ll be happier with her, without you,” Weasley’s face is a deep, swollen red, a nearly purple color that spreads to his ears and his neck in ugly, angry splotches. 

“You were just going to hurt him, and my sister- neither of you gave a  _ damn  _ about my sister-” 

“That wasn’t your decision to make, Weasle.” Draco had forgotten Blaise was there at all, but sure enough, there he is in all of his confident, pureblooded glory. “You should have let it sort itself out. People get  _ hurt _ , you ginger headed fuck, that’s life. You can’t very well go  _ obliviating  _ everyone who you’re trying to protect.” Draco’s impressed that Blaise has been able to keep up with the situation, but then again, Zabini has always been too smart for his own good. The two keep arguing, sounding like bloody first years, throwing insults back and forth. 

The weight of the situation hits Draco again, and he misses Potter’s warmth already, his banter, the smell of him when they lay together in the grass.

Merlin, he’s been such an idiot. He should have never pushed Potter away, should have kept him close in his arms, locked him away somewhere so that Ronald fucking Weasley could never- 

Weasley. 

Fucking  _ Weasley _ . 

Something wild unhinges inside of Draco. The bird in his heart is shrieking wildly,  _ do something, do something.  _ His eyes dart back and forth, his muscles tensed, jaw clenching and unclenching, and he whips out his wand, driving it beneath the redhead’s chin. Weasley’s nostrils flare as he falls silent, and Draco feels the hard tip of Weasley’s own wand against his stomach, and, in a flash, Blaise has his wand pressed against Weasley’s temple, his body framing the lanky, rundown boy’s body. 

An odd noise bubbles in Draco’s mouth, something akin to a growl, “Change him back Weasley, or Merlin help me-”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to Malfoy. And I don’t.”

Desperation claws at him,  _ no, no, he can’t be gone. _

“We’re going to march to the Gryffindor Common Room and you’re bloody well going to change him back, Weasley, or I’ll- I’ll-” 

“You’ll what, Malfoy?  _ Tell your father?  _ Something tells me that wouldn’t go over very well, knowing that you’ve been taking it up the arse- and from a  _ half-blood _ , no less-” 

There’s laughter underneath the cruel words, and the curse is on Draco’s lips before he realizes it. “ _ Expulso! _ ”

Weasley flies back against the wall, his head smacking against the brick with a sickening crack. He groans, touching the back of his head, his eyes widening at the blood coating two of his fingers. Draco draws his wand back again with Blaise at his side, feeling an awful satisfaction building in him.

“ _ Arresto Momentum _ !” Draco feels his limbs and body slow down exponentially, and it seems as if he is moving in slow motion. His next spell dies in his throat, and it seems the whole tower thrums with magic. Weasley strides towards them, and Draco barely registers that Blaise has stilled, too. Their attacker raises his wand, and Draco realizes too late what he’s going to do. His lips go to form a last minute plea, a  _ no, please, don’t make me forget about him, his touch, his warmth, please, because I really think I could fall in love with him, in fact, I’m probably already halfway there-  _

His thoughts are cut off by the word he knew was coming, a horrible sound tearing from Weasley’s chest.

“ _ Obliviate!”  _

He sees the images taken from him- him and Potter playing quidditch in the cloak of the night, sneaking into Honeydukes cellar, their first kiss, their first time, the night they spent telling each other things that they had never dared say out loud to anyone before, the softness Potter’s skin and hair, the smell-  _ mint, grass, vanilla, mint, grass, vanilla-  _ the feel of dewy grass beneath his back, the water lilies that grow near the grove they had made their own. 

Lastly, Potter’s smile. A warm touch. A word-  _ “forever.”  _

And darkness. 

* * *

Ron wonders if this feeling will ever go away. This unsureness, this feeling like water swelling in his lungs and throat, wave after wave of guilt hitting him. He had seen the look in Malfoy’s eyes before he fell to the ground in what seemed like a peaceful sleep, an aching request to be able to keep his memories of the one he loves.

He stumbles, his head pounding, vision blurry. No, he reckons, it probably won’t ever stop. But it helps to think of how happy his flushed sister had looked when Harry doted on her today. 

He’s surprised that he makes it to the Fat Lady at all, with the state he’s in. He’s certain that his head is still bleeding. She raises an eyebrow at him, “My, my, don’t you look frightful. Gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble again, have we?” Ron clenches his teeth and grinds out the password to her, ignoring her indignant sniff as she swings open. He limps into the Common Room, which is empty save for Hermione. 

Fan-bloody-tastic. 

The wild haired girl doesn’t look up from her book at first. 

“Harry’s gone to bed already,” she says absently.“Said he was tired- Ronald, what  _ happened _ ?”

She rushes over to him, her touch light and fleeting, her breath sharp when she finds the gash on his head. Her brown eyes gleam with concern in the light of the fire, almost golden, and he feels another kind of guilt, remembering Lavender’s body beneath him and how he wanted nothing but for her to be the girl in front of him. 

He considers lying to her, but remembers Malfoy’s face again, so similar to Harry’s when he’d Obliviated Harry, and tears sting at his eyes. “‘Mione- I, I fucked up ‘Mione. I fucked up real bad.” He breaks down in her arms then, no doubt getting blood all over her robes, thinking of his best mate and wondering, for the hundredth time, if he’d done the right thing. Zabini had been easy to Obliviate- he wasn’t involved, not really. But Harry and Malfoy, they were so entangled in each other, so obviously  _ enamoured _ . 

He feels like a monster.

So he tells her everything, sitting across from her on the ground next to the fire, afraid to look at her as the quiet words spill out. When he finishes and she stays quiet, he forces himself to meet her gaze. 

“‘Mione?” 

And  _ oh _ , the look on her face breaks his heart. 

She’s leaning back from him, her hand poised in postured horror over her mouth, eyes shining with ready tears. When she does speak, her words are thick and filled with choked back sobs. 

“Ronald,” the way she says his name kills him, “how  _ could  _ you?”

He reaches for her, and she flinches, “I just wanted to make him happy- I don’t know, I was thinking of my sister, of him-”

She stands up, her movements filled with calculating fury, and her eyes are cold.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley, he was happy. He was- dare I say-  _ falling in love _ . I don’t like Malfoy any better than you do, for Godric’s sake,  _ I’m  _ the one he thinks is a filthy Mudblood. But Harry,” her gaze drifts back to the boys dormitories, “Harry was happy with him, happier than he’d ever been with Ginny, and she deserves someone who would never even think of straying from her.” 

Ron draws his hand back, his mouth a hard line. 

“There’s bloody well nothing I can do about it now Hermione, they’ve forgotten and now they- they can be  _ happy _ without each other.” 

Disgust and fear consume her features.

“We’ve got to fix it Ron. I- I don’t know much about memory spells, but I’ve got some books, and together I’m sure we could…” 

Cold dread fills him, and he begins shaking his head at her incessant stream of consciousness, her insistence at  _ fixing  _ what he’d done. He cuts her off.

“Can’t you, for once, leave it alone, you  _ insufferable  _ know-it-all?” 

Hurt floods her eyes and body, and he softens, reaching for her again. 

“No, Ron,” she backs away from him. “I can’t  _ leave it alone _ , and Harry at least deserves to know, and if you won’t tell him-” Ron’s eyes widen.

“I will.” She finishes firmly, turning away from him. She stalks towards the room he’s shared with Harry for years, and panic overtakes him. Harry can’t know. He’ll hate Ron. He’ll never trust him again, and he can tell that Hermione already feels a sort of aversion towards him and- oh god, what if she never finds it within herself to love him the way that he’s always loved her- 

“Hermione! _ ”  _ she turns, determined, brow raised, and he does the first thing that comes to his mind. 

“ _ Obliviate!”  _

Betrayal colors her features right before the spell reaches her, and it hits her oddly, on the side of her head, and for a moment, her whole body is glowing with light. She sways, eyes fluttering, knees buckling, and Ron rushes forward to catch her, scooping her up and laying her across the couch, spreading an open textbook across her stomach. He brushes a curl back from her forehead, worrying his lip and pressing a chaste kiss to her palm. He stares at his wand, which has never been the most reliable thing, but Harry had seemed fine, and he can only hope that Hermione comes out alright, too. 

He’s alone, now, the only one who knows. And he wonders just exactly what he’s done. 

 


End file.
